


Crème Brûlée

by lenasorensen



Category: GOT7
Genre: Brief Smut, Jealous Mark, M/M, Mentions of Yugyeom, NC-17, a little bit of jjp, but it’s markjin, character evolution?, football player jinyoung, he acts tough, it’s a bit of a mess, mark came off slightly obsessive, mentions of drug use, secret softie jinyoung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 12:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16892733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenasorensen/pseuds/lenasorensen
Summary: Despite appearances—and as opposed to popular beliefs—Jinyoung wasn’t the tough, hot-headed football player the whole campus knew him to be.He was small, svelte, and tender.Just the way Mark liked it.(former title: Small, Svelte and Tender)





	1. He was

**Author's Note:**

> english is hard, my brain is thoroughly fried, and i wrote this so fast that i lost sight of the main idea
> 
> i do not own got7
> 
> warning: drug use
> 
> enjoy!

He was 10.

 

The sun was soft on his skin and the nipping wind stung his eyes, making them water. Or so was the lie he told himself as he watched a frilly boy curled in on himself in the corner of the playground, head tucked between his thin knees and shoulders sagging in a way that brought discomfort in Jinyoung. 

 

He smoothed the wrinkles of his long sleeved shirt before shyly closing the distance that separated him and the boy, casting a looming shadow upon him who looked significantly smaller before Jinyoung’s height. 

 

“Hey,” Jinyoung said, almost whispered, just noticing the Korean handbook spilled beside the boy. 

 

The boy looked up, eyes bloodshot and looking too tired to belong to a 10 year-old. There was a natural pink brushed on his sun-kissed cheeks that reminded Jinyoung of countries with pastel blue skies and merigold beaches, and his jet-black hair stuck mercilessly to his forehead. Jinyoung’s heart soaked up the pity that had collected within him at the sight of the boy, who had obviously been crying, gaze cold and distant, but notably empty. 

 

He looked so small and fragile, like he could shatter into irreconcilable pieces of himself with a soft lick of the autumn wind. Jinyoung looked at him carefully, shifting on the spot at the lack of reaction. He wondered why such a beautiful boy could be spilling tears in a happy place as their school’s playground. 

 

The boy’s only response came in the form of wobbling lips, mumbling words Jinyoung could not understand because they weren’t in Korean, before pressing his eyes back onto his knees. 

 

Jinyoung sighed, tracing his footsteps back to where he began. 

  
  
  


He tried again, on another day, this time with a small box of cereal weighing in his hand and a bright smile on his face. 

 

The boy’s presence was not hard to notice, always reticent in his nature and bundled up in the same corner. Widening his smile, Jinyoung made a beeline to the boy and sat down next to him. 

 

“Can I sit with you?” Jinyoung asked, folding the Korean handbook close and gingerly slipping it in the boy’s strewn backpack, looking like its worth was tantamount to that of a garbage bag. 

 

He received an odd look from the boy before a lifeless shrug lifted his shoulder, and in turn, it lifted the corners of Jinyoung’s lips as well. 

 

“Do you want some of my cereal?” Jinyoung stuck out his hand with the breakfast snack wrapped in hazy plastic, himself chewing on a mouthful. 

 

The boy nodded so weakly Jinyoung thought he was only imagining things. 

  
  
  


Everyday, Jinyoung would come back with another snack, tugging along a sense of protection he wore like his own clothes, never forgetting to swathe the boy—whose name he later learned was Mark Tuan—with warmth and understanding. 

 

Mark was a foreigner, sticking out from the crowd like a sore thumb with his thick accent and stammering words. He had much difficulty blending in with the peers his age; timidity and the feeling of not  _ belonging  _ being great factors to his already poor socializing abilities. 

 

Mark, Jinyoung realized, had just been waiting for someone to come by and bestow the help he didn’t have the means, and words, to ask for. Jinyoung, though unbeknownst to him at first, turned out to be that person. 

 

Being 10 years old, Jinyoung was completely hopeless at teaching and explaining, but his incompetence never made him falter. Korean was hugely disparate from English, Jinyoung knew that for a fact, and helping Mark was one of the biggest challenges of his life, aside from swallowing his mother’s broccoli soup without cringing. Yet, he always treated Mark with utmost care, his immaculate patience not once bearing a crack. 

 

It was an awkward back and forth at first, until Mark’s Korean improved by the day and Jinyoung picked up some of the English words Mark was teaching him. It was an ideal balance that they both indulged in. They stayed friends even after Mark’s Korean became more than sloppily stuttered blabbers and waxed into fluency, although Mark shouldn’t really have needed him anymore. 

 

They were not inseparable, per se. Good friends, was the simple terms to describe their bond. 

  
  


-

  
  


He was 12. 

 

Mark was a peculiar boy. 

 

He hung out with his sisters more than his younger brother, and some of the girls’ habits seemed to have rubbed off on Mark as well. 

 

The delicacy of his skin, well taken care of, or at least beyond the normal level of a boy’s inclination, the softness of his unusually red lips, the intricately trimmed hair and his nails filed to perfection. 

 

As far as appearances went, Jinyoung never really paid any mind. Mark was beautiful. It wasn’t a disputable fact. 

 

There were some other things that Mark would do, as though unconsciously and completely natural to him, that Jinyoung sometimes found himself frowning to. The way he would tuck his hair behind his ear, or flutter his long eyelashes, his movements small and calculated. The reticence and lingering shyness in his voice softened every word that came out of his mouth, the familiarity of his reddening cheeks whenever he felt flustered reminiscent of a cartoon girl. Traits that Jinyoung recognized on his own bigger sisters when they came home with their boyfriends. 

 

Mark didn’t laugh. He  _ giggled.  _ High pitched but contagious. 

 

There was nothing wrong with it, Jinyoung convinced himself. Mark was just a peculiar boy, and his friend. 

 

Mark never played football with him. While Jinyoung barricaded against his friends, which would certainly earn him countless red cards should they play seriously like on TV, kicked balls and splashed mud on his calves, Mark would stand still by the sidelines, arms hidden behind his svelte frame and shouting the occasional  _ Park Jinyoung fighting!  _

 

Jinyoung didn’t hate it. He just deemed it a little quaint. 

  
  
  


As they grew up, they never tried to hide anything from the other. Transparency was imperative in their friendship, because there was nothing better than heartfelt honesty in Jinyoung’s opinion. 

 

Be as it may, Mark never really told him anything that could help explain why he differed so much from the other boys. He was always so cut-clean and proper, soft edges and caging a tender heart within his chest, behaving more like Jinyoung’s girlfriend than his best friend. 

 

He knew it wasn’t a secret, or something Mark didn’t want to tell him. Otherwise, Jinyoung would have been informed in some way. 

  
  
  


The sun was setting beyond the window, and Jinyoung wanted to catch it, wanted to keep the fiery ball of orange in a jar to forever have the image carved somewhere. The book in his lap was forgotten, the humming of the air-conditioner faded into background noise as Jinyoung immersed himself in watching the last specks of the sun sink into the horizon. 

 

“Jinyoung,” his friend spoke next to him. Jinyoung didn’t flinch, only turned his head to peer at Mark, the picture of the sunset still impaired in his vision. 

 

“I’m gay,” Mark said. Jinyoung blinked, waited a short moment before turning back to the window, slightly disappointed that the sky was now painted in pale pink in the wake of the sleeping sun. 

 

“I like boys,” Mark tried again, and Jinyoung could only nod. 

 

He felt rather than saw Mark creep up behind him, gazing over his shoulder at the book laid uselessly in his lap, then out the window. “Are you not going to say anything?” he asked cautiously, tugging at Jinyoung’s sleeve. 

 

“I don’t know what to say.”

 

To him, Mark disclosing his sexuality was like learning that the Earth was round. There was just no intelligent response to that. Jinyoung knew it. He  _ expected  _ it. 

 

“And what about you?” There was a hint of tentation imbued between each word, and it hadn’t even escaped Jinyoung’s unripened, 12 year-old conscience. 

 

“I don’t know. Maybe I am.”

 

He was still too young to decide whether he liked having a dick shoved in his ass or not. Or at least, that was how he saw it.

  
  


-

  
  


He was 14. 

 

Jinyoung liked football. He attempted his position during tryouts and performed like his life depended on it, and ironically, life gave him a broken leg instead of lemons. 

 

He still got accepted despite his accident, and Mark had been there every step of the way, even in his hazy memory of the ambulance transporting him to the nearest hospital.

 

Mark didn’t play with him. Mark had always just watched him, silently, probing him on for a win. 

  
  
  


There was something powerful about being strong. The stronger his blows, the more validated he felt. He couldn’t believe he could stoop so low as having football define who he was. It wasn’t the muscles that Jinyoung wanted, it was the satisfaction of kicking balls into other people’s faces. It was walking in the corridors of the school, head high but stance humble, sponging the respect and admiration from his peers. 

 

It impressed the girls, but it also impressed Mark. 

 

Jinyoung was still unsure about the whole unraveling of their friendship. He couldn’t pinpoint where the turning point had been, but recently, people began to confuse them for a couple. 

 

Mark was everywhere Jinyoung was. In the mornings, when he would card his hair through Jinyoung’s tousled hair, during lunch, when he’d feed Jinyoung with the chopsticks that had touched his mouth, after practice, when he’d embrace Jinyoung so hard his muscles ached and congratulated him for his amazing performance on the field. 

 

In hindsight, Mark wasn’t  _ always _ with Jinyoung, but Jinyoung’s name unremittingly had a way to tug on the elder’s tongue, to be mentioned even in the most deviant of topics. Jinyoung always found an appearance somewhere, though he knew none of it. He just heard this from Yugyeom, who, with an impeccably straight face, blurted out that just  _ maybe  _ Jinyoung should think of Mark with scant more consideration. And maybe things would explain themselves. 

 

Jinyoung didn’t hate it. He just deemed it a little quaint. 

 

Something was a little off.

  
  
  


Jinyoung loved to protect. 

 

Despite being the younger one, he would always make sure no harm would ever reach Mark. He was born with the instincts of a mother hen, oddly found relief in serving as a human shield to ensure his friends’ comfort and welfare. He was ready to freeze to death without his jacket if it meant keeping another beloved person warm. He was okay with catching the flu from a sick person if it meant he had helped nurse them back to health. He knew with every fiber of his being that he would take a stab in the back in the stead of another one he cherished, even  _ from  _ another one he cherished. If it meant the rest of the world was breathing and okay, Jinyoung never had a problem getting hurt. 

 

He found himself doing that a lot for Mark. And that was probably why a lot of his friends had pointed out their undetermined relationship, the romantic sway in it that Jinyoung couldn’t perceive. It seemed to render Mark ecstatic.  

 

“Mark has feelings for you,” Youngjae told him one night after football practice, looking bored but mostly tired from running. 

 

Jinyoung frowned. Why was it so easy for people to say that?

 

Something definitely felt off.

  
  


-

  
  


He was 16. 

 

It was the first time he’d ever fought with Mark over something of such caliber. 

 

It was a well-known fact that had echoed across the whole nation that Mark was pretty much head over heels in love with Jinyoung, but obviously, only Jinyoung himself had the mind to bear skepticism for no apparent reason. 

 

Something was still off, and Jinyoung couldn’t figure out what. He needed to know before it rattled his brain and stirred irritation. 

 

Maybe it was because he had decided that boys were what he prefered, and Mark’s demeanor did not line with Jinyoung’s horizon of weaknesses. It was cruel, in a way, to peg a person’s behavior to the opposite gender without so much deliberation. But Jinyoung had been friends with Mark for too long not to know Mark’s delicacy stemmed from a sort of femininity that he wasn’t particularly partial to. 

 

So he tried experimenting. 

 

It was no secret that Jinyoung was tailed by a horde of admirers, the vast majority being girls. Jinyoung was a football player, though not the best of them all but the cutest looking according to a ridiculous tally—courtesy of the fangirls’ fabrication. 

 

There was a boy, Youngjae’s friend, whom Jinyoung caught himself glancing at more times than what would be deemed normal. His name was Jaebum, was shamelessly part of his fanclub, and brought stars to Jinyoung’s eyes.

 

He was well-built, yet so soft on the inside. 

 

Those were primary traits anyone would notice, but Jinyoung sought way deeper than that. He once saw Jaebum—having an eye for the elder made it tenfold easier to spot him around school—leaning his shoulder against the wall with his hands dipped in his pockets, enthralled in a conversation with Youngjae. Everything was so blatant, yet so innocuous in nature. 

 

It made his heart beat so much faster. 

 

Park Jinyoung, football player, asked out Im Jaebum, the school’s infamous teacher’s pet. 

 

They tested out a date together, and concluded that it wasn’t all too bad, surely worthy of a second try. 

 

There was never a second try.

 

Somehow—Jinyoung had no idea  _ how _ when he exhausted himself in obscuring it with utmost secrecy—Mark found out. 

 

Mark’s jealousy flamed like the fires from hell roused up to the surface of the Earth, erupting in bristles and burning Jinyoung’s skin. 

 

“Why have you never bothered telling me that you were gay!” Mark shouted at him, flailing his arms angrily. 

 

“I didn’t find the necessity in telling you.” It was a timid mumble, because Jinyoung knew he was in the wrong, but tried to defend his stance anyway. He’d thought he’d made it brazen to the world. 

 

However, Mark’s own timidity that usually clung to his back like the plague was nowhere to be found. “I thought we were friends! I thought—”

 

Jinyoung didn’t want him to say it.

 

“I thought we were more than that!” 

 

It sounded so awry, like an off-key note in a beautiful piano piece, coming from Mark’s mouth. It was the truth, nonetheless, though infinitely dreadful. Perhaps Jinyoung had really been leading him on.

 

“But we never were anything to begin with, besides friends.” He figured he couldn’t keep hurting Mark like this, feeding him false hope. Mark deserved the truth, and Jinyoung deserved a slap to the face. 

 

Mark deflated visibly, and asked resignedly: “Why? Why Jaebum?”  _ Why not me?  _ silently hovered above their heads, but it was all that resounded in Jinyoung’s ears.

 

“He’s my type.”

 

“And what’s lacking in me?” The anger Jinyoung thought gone made its return in Mark’s attitude, as he stepped forth right before Jinyoung. He was smaller, thinner, a lot more delicate than what composed Jinyoung, but he made Jinyoung cower into himself. 

 

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

 

“What’s lacking in me!” Jinyoung flinched. It was not a question, it was a demand.

 

Jinyoung sighed. He yearned for the comfort of his bed, and the consolation of sleep. He didn’t need to come up with something, or even utter a word, when his silence seemed to be the key to Mark’s unsolved troubles. 

 

Mark stepped back, and with each step, figments of their friendship splintered until there was nothing left. 

 

Jinyoung wanted to reach out, really, and convince Mark to stay, if there was anything worth bargaining. With how much of an ass he had been, Jinyoung doubted Mark would ever come crawling back.

 

He thought their friendship meant more than that. But if Mark had never left him all along, it was because he was in love with Jinyoung. 

 

They had a fallout that year.

  
  
  


In a corner of his lost heart, heavy with sorrow, Jinyoung knew he liked Mark the way the latter did him. In the meantime of their ripening into something they yet weren’t, Jinyoung and Mark did not mold together well. They were two odd pieces of puzzle, two halves of two wholes. But they fit in ways that they didn’t want; as friends. 

 

Despite everything, Mark was still an important detail in his life. It was no newfound revelation; the affirmation just further confirmed itself when Mark’s departure felt like a vital part of Jinyoung had been ripped away from him. 

 

Mark never came back. The only thing Mark placed at Jinyoung’s disposal was the display of his back. 

 

Perhaps they were looking for the same things.

  
  


-

  
  


He was 18.

 

He couldn’t help it.

 

Mark had been his friend for so long, it was almost sad to have to use the past tense. 

 

More importantly, he was so used to Mark and everything that gravitated around the boy that even from a distance, Mark’s changes had never been so clear.

 

Jinyoung still played football, the infirmary was his second home and his bones rarely stayed in one piece. He was rough like that. 

 

Mark didn’t stay on the sidelines anymore. Mark played basketball. 

 

Mark began to fill in the gaps his shirts used to leave. Jinyoung didn’t notice at first, but after not having seen Mark for a while, the subtle vicissitudes in the elder became increasingly evident. 

 

He wore sleeveless shirts like they was created solely for him, and Jinyoung didn’t know when he had had the time to draw himself new muscles along his biceps. Mark’s sneakers were semi-permanently soiled, worn creases from one too many jumps. Mark grew taller, broader, yet sustained his thin form and dainty hands, sculpted like they were meant for manicure. Except instead of being painted with nail varnish, dirt ran along the crescents. 

 

When it had all begun, Jinyoung did not know. He missed Mark, though. 

 

Not because he had changed so suddenly and seemed to appeal to Jinyoung more than he ever had. But because Mark had always left the hole in his heart gaping wide without an opportunity for closure, like a wound to never be healed, unable to seal. 

 

Jinyoung didn’t even have the guts to talk to Jaebum anymore, despite now being the perfect chance to move on. Mark wasn’t there to stop him anymore.

 

He carried on living his life as he usually would, weaving between tedious studies and football practice, mourning the 10th fracture of his knee in the infirmary while going over his chemistry notes. 

 

He never knew why Mark changed, and remained oblivious to the latter’s eyes drilling into the back of his head whenever he wasn’t looking. 

 

Vindictive, but sweet. 

  
  
  


“You’re an idiot,” Youngjae said to him, eyes still glued to his math textbook, to which Jinyoung expressed his confusion with a scratch to the head. Youngjae looked nothing short of unimpressed, bored, like everyone seemed to be when discussing the topic of Mark and Jinyoung. Was it that heavy an affair? Or was it just so uninterestingly frivolous?

 

“What?” His hand hovered above his own book, papers scattered around them like a flood. Jinyoung could hardly maneuver around. 

 

“You’re dense.”

 

Jinyoung stayed quiet, staring thoughtlessly at Youngjae. They were just notices the younger made, but somehow, they felt like some vague insults to his pride. 

 

“Do you miss Mark?” Youngjae continued when Jinyoung didn’t answer.

 

“Yeah, I do,” he said, nonplussed, but without a trace of hesitation. 

 

Jinyoung frowned. What was this about?

  
  
  


Jinyoung found out later, during a party. 

 

He’d barely had any time taking a proper shower to wash away the dirt and the remnant of sweat from football practice before Jackson was urging him into a pair of tight jeans and a shirt he was sure belonged to neither of them. A whiff of cologne, a quick ruffle to his damp hair and Jinyoung was out the creaking door of the changing rooms, trailing with him his backpack as Jackson dragged him by his wrist across the city. 

 

Upon their arrival to some place Jinyoung didn’t recognize, Jackson unceremoniously threw their backpacks among a pile of other stuff and made their entrance. Cheers erupted immediately when Jackson graced their peers with his monumental presence, and in a few seconds, Jinyoung blended in especially well with the background, completely forgotten. 

 

A lot of students here were ravenously eager to reach that state of ethylic coma, and in the middle of the bustling life stood Jinyoung, stiff and uncomfortable, looking like a scared animal. 

 

Out of place would be an immeasurable euphemism for how Jinyoung felt. Thankfully, it was in the human nature to adapt to their environment no matter how dissimilar to home, and Jinyoung found himself with questionable drinks in his hands, down his throat, and eventually running within his system. 

 

There was a buzz in his veins, his head light, vision framed like a dream, and the ground spun beneath his feet. The music pounded the walls, his heart, his limbs that weighed so little. 

 

(He probably made out with Jaebum too. He didn’t remember it, but Youngjae would later recount the memory with unnecessary, gross details, involving tongue and some groping.)

 

In an instant, Jinyoung spotted Mark.

 

Mark, as usual, looked ethereal. Too beautiful for a man, and he never looked better before the embellishing layer filtering Jinyoung’s drunken conscious.  

 

He couldn’t recall how exactly things fell into place, but not a moment later, Jinyoung was pressed against a wall, the two of his wrists cradled in Mark’s hand and pinned above his head, another body warmth enclosing his own. He wasn’t manhandled, no, every movement of Mark’s still preserved the unmistakable softness that Jinyoung was so familiar with. The contradiction of the situation made him uncomfortably dizzy. 

 

His heart picked up the pace, every intake of breath was laborious, and despite having shaped his knees to fit the exhausting charge of football, they threatened to buckle like Jinyoung was born boneless. 

 

The last time he made any sort of physical contact with Mark, he was the bigger one. He had  _ always  _ been the bigger one, anyway. Even when football wasn’t part of Jinyoung’s life, he had flesh and roundness, whereas Mark was composed of bones and angular shapes. 

 

Jinyoung hadn’t been a fat kid, but Mark had always looked so incredibly slender by contrast. 

 

Now, Mark still had a few centimeters to catch up to him, and granting his newly billowed biceps—and muscles in other places Jinyoung could not yet reach—Mark still was thinner, but never in Jinyoung’s 18 years of existence had he felt so little before the man whom he was used to crush with his weight. 

 

Sadly, the moment was short-lived as Mark retreated with a smirk, resembling a victorious badge for reasons unknown to Jinyoung. 

  
  
  


That wasn’t their last encounter. 

 

They met again, at school. It was sometime before graduation and Jinyoung was dumbly wandering the deserted hallways of the school, habitually silent like a wind of death had washed through every crevice of the place. There was not a soul beside him with the exception of Jinyoung’s shadow solemnly trailing in the wake of his steps. 

 

It was Mark that pulled him aside and cornered him against a wall, much similar to the way he managed at the party, only this time, Jinyoung was too sober to uphold a straight face and swallow down his hammering heart. He couldn’t disguise his worry. 

 

Worry turned into shock turned into something indefinable when Mark kissed him with bruising force.

 

Jinyoung liked it.

 

He liked it a lot. 

 

“Is this what you want?” Mark said between pants, snaring him into place, not leaving ample space should Jinyoung’s feet be gripped by the urge to make a run for it. 

 

Jinyoung didn’t speak, the shock still stunning him into a cold marble statue. 

 

Mark scooped in for a brief peck to the lips, this time soft and so inexplicably promising, before once again retreating.

 

Jinyoung slid down the wall and touched the burning area, feeling his swollen lips from the harsh nipping and still wet from the coat of saliva he had  _ shared  _ with Mark. 

 

_ Yes. Yes I enjoyed it so much. Please do it again _ . Those words never made it past his lips, and having them bundled up in his mind seared the memory permanently in the fissures of his soul. It didn’t help him forget. 

 

The days that followed were empty. Jinyoung was greatly disappointed when nothing ever ensued between them again, being too cowardly to commit to making the first move. As to Mark, he scarcely made any appearance, aside from popping up here and there, never too close, never too far.

 

Then, they graduated. That day, Jinyoung didn’t even see Mark once. 

  
  


-

  
  


He was 21. 

 

Jinyoung had his hands on his waist, staring at Youngjae who was so mad he was practically set alight, grumbling infuriated nonsense to an equally irate Yugyeom. They were on the field, drenched in sweat that was a sign of both their exhaustion and their anxiety. They were losing to the opposite team, who didn’t make the bitter pill easier to swallow with their air of greater dignity and their insolent fashion of exhibiting their superiority. 

 

Jinyoung himself was webbed to insatiable anger, the bittersweet taste of resentment stinging his insides, and the stimulus of driving a fist to their arrogant faces had never burned with such a passion. If anything, Jinyoung just wanted to win this, walk away and sleep without having to think back to this day again. 

 

Youngjae was shaking a kid’s shoulder, a prominent green vein bulged out along his neck, and gritting his teeth so hard Jinyoung worried they would snap. Jinyoung’s knee was bleeding and the bruise was probably starting to stain his skin, but all he could do in that moment to deviate his attention to something more spirit-lifting was to turn his gaze to the bleachers, scanning for Jaebum’s face. His former fuck friend never skipped any of their tournaments. 

 

Something spirit-lifting was exactly what he found.

 

His heart skipped a beat, and out of everyone Jinyoung had cut ties with, he had to recognize Mark’s slender face seated next to Jaebum, not having the slightest idea why the elder was dawlding around here. As far as Jinyoung knew, they didn’t even attend the same college, and had lost contact since their graduation from high school. Jinyoung couldn’t show his shock, but it was efficient in outweighing his present worries. A great distraction. 

 

Mark offered him a skimper of a smile, gently pumping a fist in the air like they didn’t share some sort of intricate history. 

 

He never changed. No matter how much time passed, Mark never really changed. He was still the 10 year-old bawling his eyes out in the corner of the school’s playground in fear of socializing with people that were as good as aliens in his eyes. Still so slim, so magically lithe. And beautiful. 

 

The match dragged on until after the afternoon waned into a night, and finally, they lost. Youngjae stormed back home, leaving nothing but furious footsteps behind, and Yugyeom gave him an apologetic pat to the shoulder, tears rimming his eyes. Jinyoung felt bad, but couldn’t help his indifference towards the result of the game.

 

However, nothing stopped Mark from grabbing his wrist in the midst of everything like Jinyoung didn’t just lose a match of paramount importance, calling a cab and heading to the nearest hotel they could find without so much as a justification. Jinyoung didn’t have the heart to speak a word of objection; perhaps deep down he was enjoying every second of it. Mark was extra gentle, too, and Jinyoung found the space for refusal a little more than sparse. 

 

Mark’s touch felt so foreign.

 

Everything happened too fast for Jinyoung to register a thing, and before he knew it, they were shoving a pill down their throats so fast it almost ended up in Jinyoung’s windpipe. A recreational drug, or something. Jinyoung wasn’t afraid.

 

It wasn’t long until Mark wound up on top of Jinyoung, his form  _ still  _ smaller somehow, but so powerful. Where he lacked in girth he made up for with his compelling and authoritative ministrations, drowning Jinyoung with his kisses and scalding him with his touches. They played around with each other, stroking themselves to hardness with either hand or tongue, and soon, the deciding time came.

 

The MDMA kicked in, and Jinyoung felt like he was losing his senses at how much more acute everything seemed. It felt like he was floating on the ripples of water, motion sickness gurgling in his guts and mind. But at the same time, the toe-curling pleasure crawling up his spine skyrocketed through the roof and into the sky, gyrates numbing his veins and limbs. Jinyoung had never felt so dead, yet so brimful with life at once. 

 

“Mark—” Jinyoung choked out, sweating profusely for the second time that day but for another reason entirely. “Mark, I don’t—”

 

“I know,” Mark interrupted, scooping Jinyoung’s bare body into his lap. The friction coaxed a deep moan out of his lips. It came out straight from his lungs, an organ that was beginning to flat out die.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to stay still, fidgeting and whining and clawing at everything that was within his reach. Mark too, seemed to meet trouble keeping his voice at bay, spiking three octaves higher and wavering with intense relish. 

 

His head was swimming by the time Mark slipped himself into Jinyoung, and that was the breaking point. The cliff from which Jinyoung’s brain nose-dived at a steadfast speed into a dark abyss of oblivion. He was losing his mind. 

 

Jinyoung liked it. 

 

He  _ loved  _ it. 

 

He always had, but never realized it until Jaebum made love to him for the first time. 

 

But this was Mark, the guy marked by quaint femininity that Jinyoung couldn’t reconcile to with a deciding mind. The guy Jinyoung grew up to know as the slimmest, daintiest, and with curves that don’t fit a boy’s body. 

 

If Mark was all gentle and shyness in the broad daylight, this Mark seemed to have warped from an entire different lifetime. He tugged and pushed and pull and bruised and marked and bit, a combination that was thoroughly at odds with the usual Mark. It was a sight shrouded with haze and perceived by a pair of eyes under ecstatic intoxication, but it was nonetheless a sight that Jinyoung would have never pegged to Mark even after he’d died and rebirthed into dirt. 

 

The two contradicting façades emerged to be a major turn-on for Jinyoung. The MDMA was not assuaging the image of dominant Mark that was slowly growing on him like thorns. In fact, it was doing nothing but endorsing his pleasure. 

 

Jinyoung utterly  _ loved  _ to be dominated.

 

He was brought back to his senses by a sound parallel to a desperate shriek that he soon discerned as his own. Mark’s teeth sunk into his shoulder was a reminder that  _ it  _ was happening and Jinyoung wasn’t stroking the rifts of a dream. 

 

Jinyoung went taut and his jaw hardened on impulse when he reached his climax, and for a breathtaking instant, Jinyoung forgot many things: his name, his age, his existence, and the old Mark. 

 

The flash of white that had washed through the room was so blinding Jinyoung could have easily thought he’d died and was descending the layers of the Earth and into hell. 

 

Vibrant, near-blinding colors bloomed behind his lids as his lower stomach carried on convulsing after his orgasm, like fairy dust thrown into a canvas of ebony. Jinyoung momentarily saw white when he peeled his tired eyes open, head so light it bobbed backwards. He was met with Mark’s face, glazed with sheen and shrouded in the faint light of the lamp. 

 

He passed out as soon as it was over, the effects of the MDMA that were supposed to keep him up all night not quite catching up to his fatigue. 

 

Mark whispered a covert  _ I love you  _ into his jaw. 

  
  
  


History had a tendency to repeat itself. 

 

Mark came back nearly everyday after that, each time bearing the same, invariable motive on his shoulders. Jinyoung pretended the churning joy within his stomach never happened. He pretended they weren’t those… butterflies. 

 

Sometimes, Jinyoung was too spent to even swallow the MDMA, but Mark had always insisted, much to Jinyoung’s puzzlement. They were going to fall sick, eventually. 

 

He waited with the patience of a saint everytime Jinyoung had practice, and if nothing of the sexual nature ensued, Mark still made sure Jinyoung went home safe and ate enough. 

 

Mark was a peculiar boy. 

 

There were no deep-rooted explanations to his actions and Jinyoung had long relinquished in his attempts to find them. There was no dictionary for Mark Tuan. There was only a dim-lit path and a black gaze, but there was trust and honesty. 

 

As the MDMA stopped, Mark and Jinyoung began to hold hands, kiss in the face of the world, lean on each other as they watched sunset after sunset with no other company than themselves. 

 

Whether it was sex-inducing or innocuous, Mark and Jinyoung still kissed. 

 

Soon, the word “boyfriend” escaped Jinyoung’s lips, turned both of their state of minds to stone, but the blush on Mark’s face had been a foolproof pledge that Jinyoung wasn’t just imagining and misinterpreting things. That precise moment established their relationship. 

 

Nothing much had changed, Jinyoung figured. Mark still didn’t laugh, but giggled. He’d stopped basketball some time back, divulging that it was more of an activity to keep himself occupied more than a hobby. He was still hopeless at protecting himself from physical threats and from the cold of December, his eyes quite obviously prompting Jinyoung to shrug off his jacket for him. Of course, Jinyoung never made any excuses for that and complied without a bone of contention. 

 

For fuck’s sake, Mark still tucked his hair behind his ear. 

 

Mark was still smaller. He was still marked with distinct femininity. 

 

But it never mattered. Because Jinyoung was in love with him. 

  
  


-

  
  


He was 22. 

 

“So wait,” Jackson said, flickering his eyes from Mark to Jinyoung. Mark was huddled up on Jinyoung’s toned chest, the latter reeking of gross sweat and wet grass from football practice. The taste of metal lingered in his mouth from his altercation with his teammate, split lip a hindrance to kissing. Mark wasn’t deterred, though. The night was wearisome and Jinyoung’s whole body ached because merciless captain Choi Youngjae had decided to challenge their tenacity with new sets of extra training. 

 

Jackson licked his lips as though he couldn’t whip an answer that gratified his conscience by himself. He gestured to the both of them with a finger. “Who bottoms?” 

 

Jinyoung wanted to laugh at his confused frown, but settled with glaring at him. “That’s none of your business.” 

 

Mark giggled. “It’s Jinyoung.” 

 

“What??” It took all of Jinyoung’s strength not to groan at the way Jackson’s eyes doubled in size.  

 

Jinyoung never understood what was so impossible about that. 

 

He just  _ liked  _ it.

 

He loosened the stiff knots in his shoulder, licked some of the blood seeping through his wound, watching Mark pinch his lower lip with his straight row of teeth. He always looked so indescribably happy and amused whenever this topic saw the light of day. 

 

Jackson emerged back from his reflective trance. “So, Jinyoung is the woman in the relationship?”

 

It was a dumb question, without a doubt. So Jinyoung tactfully ruminated a retort. “There is no such thing as “the woman” in a gay relationship. We’re both boys and that’s the end of this discussion.”

 

He ignored the whine of  _ aw but that’s no fun  _ erupting from Jackson’s animatedly flailing limbs in favor of sharing a look with his boyfriend. 

 

Warm, fond, loving. 

  
  
  


It never mattered who was smaller or bigger between the both of them. The difference was imprinted in Jinyoung’s brain in bold letters, and he realized strikingly late that, all along, he was the one standing in the way of his own happiness. 

 

All because body proportions were so confusing, and he didn’t understand any sooner that it was in no pertinent way relevant to whoever takes the dick in the ass. Jinyoung loved being the one to receive, and Mark held no grudges being to one to give. Ideal balance. 

 

During the day, anything that lined with the image of Mark’s unanimous femininity would come forth, and ignorant people like Jackson would jump straight to a conclusion that was inclusive to Mark being “the woman”. When in reality, Mark was in unflinching control of everything, had Jinyoung wrapped around his lithe finger, was the deciding factor that kept them fastened together. 

 

Jinyoung was secretly submissive. His docile, nonresistant demeanor betrayed his notorious reputation of hot-headed, peremptory football player with toned arms and well-defined abs and and a full nation of fans.  

 

But they were both happy with the way things flowed, and that was enough.


	2. Small, Svelte and Tender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m experimenting with different writing styles so it might appear slightly inconsistent (and rushed) 
> 
> warning: drug use
> 
> enjoy !

He was 10. 

 

He couldn’t see anything besides the tears layering his eyes. They kept on rolling down his cheeks, and as much as salty water felt uncomfortable on his skin, it took the sting out of the fear swelling in his stomach. 

 

Socializing had always been a deeply ingrained dismay of Mark’s, but it appeared so inconsequent in comparison to doing it with complete strangers that didn’t understand a word from him and vice versa. Sitting in a corner of the playground felt more like standing before a thick, black line separating him from the rest of his Korean peers. 

 

And Mark Tuan despised being alone. 

 

Becoming a hermit and living under a rock didn’t sound so bad after minor consideration. 

 

The Korean handbook was the worst company he ever had the absolute godbend to experience. It ridiculed him:  _ Ha ha you can’t speak Korean. What a dumbass.  _

 

A miracle arrived in the form of Park Jinyoung and the sweater three times his size draped over his body, sat down next to him and shielded the numbing autumn wind. 

 

_ His knight in shining armor.  _

 

If angels had a face, all of them would resemble Park Jinyoung. 

 

All Mark had really needed to see was a smile thrown in his general direction and perhaps, that would be enough of a prod to his declining courage. Instead, he was graced with Jinyoung’s unarmed smile, soft but determined, his own shyness clinging to his back like a leech. 

 

He chased Mark’s fear away to recline back into nothing but a shadow. He made socializing seem like walking. He taught Mark the art of half-assed Korean, but good enough that Mark could catch up to his studies. He was every shades of the rainbow and the sad color of the storm at once. 

 

Mark was eternally grateful.

 

Jinyoung was just a step, though. Soon, they went their own separate ways, each having their own friends, but never strayed too far from one another. Not inseparable, but not just simple acquaintances. 

 

Soulmates, perhaps. 

  
  


-

  
  


He was 12. 

 

Mark liked boys.

 

Mark didn’t like skirts or pink jewelries, though. 

 

Often, when he disclosed his sexual preference, he would see himself change in the reflection of other people’s eyes. His image was morphing into that of a girl’s, but he never paid it any of his notice. 

 

Jackson had an unremitting habit to point out those traits in Mark. Though harmless, it was annoying.  _ If I haven’t seen your dick in the changing rooms after PE, I really would’ve thought you were a girl with short hair and a flat chest _ . Mark had pegged it to a tasteless joke, but that was before he saw how deadpan Jackson’s face looked.  _ So he was serious.  _

 

Mark sighed a lot whenever he heard something like this. He wondered how painstakingly obvious his  _ girliness  _ had to be for the whole world to recognize it, but not himself. 

 

When he stood in front of the mirror, he frowned. There was nothing wrong with him. Just plain old Mark who didn’t like football the way the other boys seemed to rejoice in. 

 

He wondered if Jinyoung saw it, too.

  
  
  


Jinyoung played football. But Mark never liked it. The prospect of dirtying his immaculate sneakers was beyond Mark’s humble inclination. They were expensive and to be handle with extreme care, so Mark didn’t want to test his chances. 

 

Jinyoung always looked so attractive doing the simplest of things. Kicking into a ball had once been something so laughable in Mark’s opinion, but Jinyoung made it seem so legendary, like an excessively difficult feat to achieve. 

 

Mark was always so enamored in the way his feet moved with such never-seen-before swiftness, his flexing calves when he pushed all of his strength into a punishing kick, and the air of utter manliness when he ran along the field. 

 

He wondered what that athletic Jinyoung would look like from up close, what Mark would be faced with if he himself played football. 

 

But he didn’t like it. If he stood on the field, it was behind those white lines that indicated his position of unofficial cheerleader. Essentially Jinyoung’s  _ personal  _ cheerleader. 

 

Mark had it bad. 

  
  
  


Until one day, Youngjae came around and shattered all of his dreams. 

 

“Jinyoung thinks you behave like a girl.” If Mark was deaf, he would have thought Youngjae was just announcing the weather. 

 

Never had words stung him so much in his life. From  _ Park Jinyoung _ , no less.

 

Despite everything, their friendship never changed. Jinyoung still played football, Mark still hopelessly fawned over his strong legs, and they were still the best of friends. 

 

Because Jinyoung’s opinion never made a difference in their friendship. Because Jinyoung never reacted differently even though he thought  _ Mark behaved like a girl.  _

  
  
  


Mark came out to Jinyoung. 

 

He wasn’t sure whether the lack of reaction pleased him or not.

 

On the one hand, it did not faze Jinyoung at all. He was not repulsed. His response, betraying Mark’s ill-brooding anticipations, was devoid of any contempt.

 

But it was so empty. 

 

He was scared Jinyoung‘s feelings were not mutual, after all.

  
  


-

  
  


He was 14.

 

Ever since Jinyoung ventured for the football tryouts, he had just about everybody following his broad, attractive back like a flock of baby ducks tailing the mommy duck. 

 

Mark wasn’t annoyed. Mark was proud. 

 

He was proud because Jinyoung had told him he was the reason behind his determination, his never resigning mindset even when he had been fastened to a hospital bed, lamenting over his broken leg for a whole, unending month. 

 

Because Mark never gave up on Jinyoung, Jinyoung never gave up on his dreams. 

 

So those girls could go find romantic preoccupations somewhere else, because Jinyoung’s disclosure was as good as a love confession to Mark. They did not stand a chance. 

  
  
  


Mark was an overachiever. Everything about him spelled  _ redundant _ . In a good way, it helped him get straight A’s, his cooking was wholesome and complete as though Mark was a seasoned chef with years of experience. Mark didn’t meet much difficulty in being good at nearly everything he did. With the exception of football, sadly.

 

But sometimes, he annoyed himself. 

 

If Jinyoung wasn’t already showered with enough love and praises, Mark had to be the one to fill the scant gaps up to the hilts. He was afraid the affection would chase the love of his life away. 

 

Jinyoung never fled. He stayed, leading Mark to think he didn’t mind it at worst, and luxuriated in it at best.

 

(Jinyoung loved it. His younger self just hadn’t been able to tell.)

 

In turn, Mark felt thoroughly protected by Jinyoung. Jinyoung, who would fend off Mark’s own horde of admirers should they step over a line, and made him uncomfortable. Jinyoung, who never hesitated to warm him up with either his bare arms, his worn sweater that smelled just like him, or both options that became badgering nuisances to Mark’s sanity. Jinyoung, who drove a steel fist in some stranger’s nose after he’d sneered at Mark. Jinyoung, who took the metaphorical blow for him when Mark failed to hand in his assignment on time ( _ what a scoop! _ ), changing the name on his copy to  _ Mark Tuan _ at the last second.

 

Jinyoung truly had a noble heart. Mark’s own heart throbbed with unadulterated pride at that. 

 

_ His knight in shining armor. _

  
  


-

  
  


He was 16.

 

Mark didn’t want to be protected anymore. He didn’t need a knight in shining armor. He was angry.

 

Jinyoung was acting weird. He didn’t look at Mark as much anymore. His hand didn’t linger on his as much anymore. When Mark was on the bleachers, Jinyoung didn’t wave at Mark, but at some other boy.

 

Mark hadn’t always been a jealous person. He felt somewhat uncomfortable that he was tressing such a deep and passionate relationship with Jinyoung only to have the latter undo the ties and set his gaze on somebody else instead. It awoke something foul in Mark. It left a sour bitterness carved into his tongue with how much it burned, unforgettable. Like a grease stain on a pink shirt. 

 

It was the beginning of everything.

 

From that point on, Mark discovered that Jinyoung was gay. It disappointed him that the epiphany wasn’t revealed because of Mark, but because of…  _ that guy. _

 

And then Mark saw Jinyoung kiss what’s-his-face, undoubtedly on a date with him. 

 

It  _ was  _ an accident. Mark wasn’t actively stalking Jinyoung by any stretch of the imagination despite the itch to do so in order to uncloak the reason behind Jinyoung’s strange attitude. 

 

Admittedly, Mark was on his way to visit Yugyeom with a question about Jinyoung scalding his tongue like he had sipped on boiling tea. What he didn’t have the half-baked intention to do was to notice Jinyoung behind the stainless window of a cafe with the boy he kept glancing at in geography class. Mark swore his heart downright died for a full second when their lips tentatively grazed, Jinyoung’s cheeks flaring up as a result. It looked like they both had a fever.

 

What flared up in Mark was affronted, heated, unfiltered, ugly jealousy.

 

He felt betrayed. 

  
  
  


Im Jaebum was nothing like Mark, though they shared one dreadful similarity. 

 

They both didn’t play football. 

 

Other than that, Jaebum was generously endowed with muscles at the right places even without lifting a finger, and the brains comparable to a genius. He was staunch and strong and firm, but also suave and elegant. 

 

For the second time in Mark’s life, he looked at his reflection in the mirror with a bitter frown. 

 

Had he always been so thin? 

 

He traced a hand on his body: he felt flesh under his digits, although regrettably sparse, the odd bone protruding in questionable areas. His fingers formed a complete loop around his wrist. He ate well, but somehow, his ribs had never been so discernible, so palpable. His thighs didn’t touch. There was no indication that Mark  _ wasn’t  _ just made of bones. 

  
  
  


But still.

 

_ Why Jaebum? Why not him? Wasn’t it the conscience that counted? _

 

Apparently not to Jinyoung. Jinyoung wasn’t good at math. 

 

“He’s my type,” was his answer. Mark reprimanded himself for expecting a different outcome. Maybe something like  _ I was trying to make you jealous will you please marry me Mark Tuan I love you so much let’s adopt babies together and live happily ever after.  _

 

And then Mark caught on. But he still couldn’t look Jinyoung in the eye without the anger and the disdain and the sinking disappointment clouding his judgement. 

 

He didn’t want to be friends with Jinyoung. 

 

They had a fallout that year.

  
  
  


It never changed the singular, unique importance that Jinyoung shouldered, though. But it wasn’t enough to make Mark stay, to make him come crawling back.

  
  


-

  
  


He was 18.

 

He couldn’t help it.

 

His bones were  _ craving  _ to crawl back to Jinyoung (and pick up the discarded shards of his dignity on his way). However, Jackson had a steel grip on his conscience, and beseeched patience in him. 

 

“What do you want him to do?” Jackson asked, balancing a stark orange basketball ball on his index finger. Mark stared.

 

“I want him to fall in love with me.” 

 

Jackson rolled his eyes. “He  _ is  _ in love with you.” 

 

“Not with my body.”

 

“Why does that matter?”

 

“It does, to him.”

 

“What does he like, then?” 

 

“Something like Im Jaebum.” Mark resisted the urge to growl. 

 

“Well, he’s pretty hot. And toned. Are you up for it?”

 

Mark side-eyed his friend, before going back to glaring holes in the ball now cradled between Jackson’s big, strong hands. Mark hated himself. 

 

“Am I up for what?”

 

Jackson rose a brow, as though Mark completely missed the point. “Becoming hot and toned. Becoming Im Jaebum. Making Jinyoung fall in love with every aspects of you.”

 

“Maybe.” Mark understood.

  
  
  


Mark understood Jinyoung. He understood that Jinyoung wanted to have love made to him, not making love to someone. He understood that Jinyoung liked being touched, not touching someone. Jinyoung desired to be writhing between big, strong hands like Jackson’s. Jinyoung dreamed of being treated like a  _ girl _ , being at the receiving end of general courtesy.

 

In some way, it was an act of receiving without giving. Jinyoung expected from others, but rarely offered much in return. 

 

That was wrong. Jinyoung  _ protected _ , too. He had always been unbeatable at spreading his diabetes-inducing affection like butter on bread, shameless and deliberate. Jinyoung, too, proposed. 

 

It clashed with his image. 

 

Perhaps, Mark understood Jinyoung so well because they stood on the same wavelength. Because the things Jinyoung wanted were the things Mark chased after. 

 

But for Jinyoung, Mark would change.

 

It wasn’t a plight. It wasn’t a hard decision.

 

The jealousy that Jinyoung and Jaebum had instilled in Mark grew into a desire to overshadow Jaebum, to replace him. To  _ become  _ him, in Jackson’s birdbrained words, while remaining himself. 

 

Mark didn’t want a knight in shining armor. He will  _ become  _ the knight in shining armor if need be. 

  
  
  


Jinyoung still played football. Jinyoung was still so  _ himself _ . Strong, broad, thick, if not covered in dirt and sweat, then soaked with blood from a not-so-gentle exchange of fists. He was featured with the sporadic aggressive behavior when things were far from agreeable, yet he wasn’t outright violent. His hot-headedness and his trademark abusive uppercut that was a distress to any chins in the world were likely traits that steered trouble out of his way. 

 

Mark saw Jinyoung everywhere he went, although he was trying his damnedest to evade him like the black plague. Jinyoung never failed to make the faintest of appearance, if not physically then by name. 

 

It irritated Mark as much as it crumbled the wall of resolve he had built. 

  
  
  


Mark found his inclination in basketball when he flipped through the insipid channels on his TV, and having nothing better to do on a bleak, rainy Sunday afternoon, contented himself in watching a random match of basketball. What had first been a distraction waxed into Mark sitting on the edge of the couch, body bend forth like the screen of the TV was slowly absorbing him, cussing unnecessarily loud when Michael Jordan failed to score a goal. 

 

He went up to Jackson the next day, approbated his friend’s long neglected request of joining for a basketball game with a shit eating grin on his face. 

 

And the rest was history. 

 

In some ways, Mark could see why Jinyoung liked sports so much. 

 

He played like he was came out of his mother’s womb wearing a basketball jersey, he liked the sting of sweat searing his skin, he liked the imprints of dirt left behind the wake of his not-so-white-anymore sneakers. 

 

Often, he crossed paths with Jinyoung in the infirmary, and if he hadn’t known better, it was like they were both rapt in a competition involving who could fracture the most bones. Ranked in severity and frequency. 

 

It was stupid. Mark would lose hand over fist. 

  
  
  


The last time Mark appraised himself in the mirror, he wore his favorite basketball jersey with his own name carved in the back, and of course, a proud smile on his face. 

 

With the progress that he had been keeping up with, skyrocketing at an alarming rate, he had taken to gauge a reaction out of Jinyoung, who was still the love of his life.

 

Unmistakably, Jinyoung looked at him again. With those stars illuminating his whole existence like Jaebum had once gave life to. 

 

Mark could say he was fruitful. His redundancy hadn’t always served to damn him after all. 

  
  
  


“I talked to Youngjae,” Jackson panted out. They laid on the basketball court, the cold ground nipping at Mark’s back feeling like motherland. 

 

“Yeah?” He replied, baring his disinterest with unaffected deliberation. 

 

“Yeah. He said he noticed too.”

 

Mark frowned. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Jinyoung.” Jackson’s voice was so heavy with rattling evidence, giving the impression that  _ Mark should know _ .

 

Against his will, Mark’s heart sped up its thrums. He was afraid Jackson might hear it. “Jinyoung what?”

 

“He wants you, man. Gather your balls and make a move already.” 

 

Mark considered it with intricate and thorough diligence. 

 

“Friday’s party,” he concluded with finality. 

  
  
  


Mark made sure he was seen. And seen he was. 

 

Jinyoung visibly shuddered when they made eye-contact, and Mark knew he’d won. 

 

In an instant, he had Jinyoung caged within his embrace, pinning him in place. Adrenaline flooded his veins alongside the alcohol, and Mark felt like he ran laps around the house before shoving a knee between Jinyoung’s legs. 

 

The look that manifested Jinyoung’s mobile features told his thrill. The excitement bled through his skin like sweat. The half-hearted fear he was beating himself blue to conceal showed in his near-buckling knees. So easy to read, Park Jinyoung, football player recently promoted to co-captain (Mark had been keeping close tabs, Yugyeom acting as their medium) and put on a pedestal for the whole nation to idolize. 

 

Who would’ve thought the pretty boy guilty of diminutive bloodshed in copious fist-fights was capable of blushing like a prepubescent teenage girl holding hands with her crush for the first time? 

 

It had been so long. Mark didn’t remember Jinyoung’s wrists being so svelte and thin between his palm, weighing almost nothing. They were so  _ small _ , tapered into dainty ends, unfit for someone who often threw concussion-inducing punches. 

 

So reminiscent of his older self.

 

So Mark left him there with no further touches, but a parched imagination that was going to take a lifetime to eradicate. 

 

Jinyoung was still broader and Mark skinnier, but Mark was objectively the bigger one. 

 

He collected the victory. 

  
  
  


Graduation was getting closer by the day, and Mark was still hopelessly in love with Jinyoung. Luckily, he had educated patience to himself, and the fine art of  _ the right time _ . He wasn’t sure what prompted him to drag this on when they could have already been fucking. 

 

Fucking wasn’t what Mark wanted, though. The prospect was nice and tempting but it wasn’t within Mark’s disposition. His tendencies of an overachiever reminded him that if he wanted Jinyoung, he was going to go _all the way_ _through._

 

Before leaving school behind the day of his graduation, declaring the last time and place he’d ever see Jinyoung, he wanted to mark the love of his life’s mind until he was impaired deep in his soul. 

 

So Mark kissed him. 

 

And left. 

  
  


-

  
  


He was 21. 

 

Jinyoung’s team was already losing by the time Mark arrived. 

 

It was only a matter of minutes before Mark found Jaebum, not quite having forgotten this particular face. The sun was angrily glaring at everyone on the field, and it eerily matched the sour faces Jinyoung’s peers sported. Youngjae looked like wanted to strangle someone. Yugyeom looked like it wouldn’t take long until he murdered someone from the opposing team. Some others just looked just about done with everything. 

 

And then Mark saw Jinyoung, stance so stiff and straight he could make out the figurative five foot pole stuck up his ass. From afar, Mark couldn’t see much, but he knew for sure Jinyoung still wore his beauty like he just came out of a photoshoot session. He had all the parameters to look so ravishing even when plunged beneath layers of sweat and dirt mixed together. 

 

Jackson hadn’t been wrong when he promised that Mark wouldn’t regret it. The slip bearing Jinyoung’s college’s address sat abandoned and borderline shunned on his bedside table for so long Mark had the nerve to forget about it for a year or two. 

 

“He has an important match today. You should go watch him. Give him moral support or something,” Jackson had said from where he sat on his scooter, his helmet making him look ridiculously similar to a beaver. 

 

“Give him moral support,” Mark repeated, thoughtful. 

 

“And you know,” Jackson licked his lips, that annoying thing he did when he was about to be sarcastic. “Finally give him what he wants, what you both are dying for, after years.” He shifted, indicating that he was five minutes away from being thirty minutes late to his part time job. 

 

Mark frowned. “Does he still want that?” 

 

“Dude!” Jackson groaned,  _ this  _ close to tearing out his hair. “That’s what you both have been tiptoeing around for literally  _ ages _ . Grow out of your emo phase, it’s time to fuck.” With that, Jackson departed on his antique scooter, leaving Mark to inhale its dying breaths, and mull over a decision he had yet to take. 

 

Mark figured perhaps he had had more than one emo phase. 

 

He’d waited too long. 

  
  
  


So after Jinyoung’s match ended in a deplorable loss, Mark wasted no time in dragging him to the nearest hotel, once again being surprised at how light Jinyoung’s fragile wrist felt in his hand, his act and trembling fingers being pretty much self-explanatory. 

 

He slipped his finger in his back pocket when they closed the door of their room behind them, producing a tablet of MDMA he got from a shady, near-permanently stoned guy named Yixing. Apparently Jackson’s habitual provider. Something about practically being cousins.

 

Pill swallowed and sensitivity amplified until the graze of dust felt like a rain of heavy stones, Mark and Jinyoung immersed themselves in the prelude of sex. Eager hands roaming, ravenous lips exploring, hardness rubbing. The rouse of pent up sexual frustration that had gathered over the fleeting years hung above their heads like a thick fog, boiling, feverous. 

 

Not once did they stop. 

 

Mark felt like he was about to vomit, but now wasn’t the time to question the legitimacy of those E pills. 

 

Beneath layers of thick clothing that usually were three times his size, in reality, Jinyoung had curves that could put Miss Universe and her glimmering diamond crown to shame. Perhaps it was just Mark’s drug-induced, totally biased opinion and mind-blowing arousal screaming in his head. 

 

He was so ready to  _ do _ it, when Jinyoung still had that sober part of himself to stop Mark in his haste. 

 

“Mark— I don’t—”

 

“I know.”

 

He knew what Jinyoung wanted to say.

 

_ I don’t fuck. I get fucked.  _

 

Mark wasn’t one to hesitate when he was clear with what Jinyoung wanted (how ironic). 

 

They’d gone for unending hours now. Mark didn’t feel so tired. His limbs screeched in angnozing protest, numb and pulsing with electricity, yet his mind never wanted it to end, sought an infinite stretch of  _ this  _ particular sensation. He had never felt so close to dying in his life. 

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, releasing a strangled moan as he felt himself throb inside of Jinyoung, a deafening buzz ringing in his ears and his brain momentarily shutting down. He was painfully agitated, throwing his head back in sheer pleasure as he climaxed, so strong he had to minimize it by clamping his teeth down on Jinyoung’s flimsy shoulder for fear of losing consciousness on the spot. 

 

They collapsed back into the pillows, Jinyoung instantly blacked out, and the last thing Mark had the strength left to utter was a demure  _ I love you  _ waning somewhere in the room. 

  
  
  


That day, he’d woken up before Jinyoung with a headache worth a thousand years of resentment pounding at his skull. Jinyoung’s body bathed in nothing but the lingering emanation of the aftersex, the dim lamp on the small table barely doing much to serve its purpose. 

 

His eyes were closed and he held the impression of someone who slept for the first time after a decade, but no less appealing. So appealing, actually, that Mark scurried to the bathroom to finally throw up the last of the food he’d eaten the day before. 

 

Spread out on a bed this size, Jinyoung was so small, like a shadow between the folds of the sheets. His skin was so pale even when shrouded with seething darkness that the morning sun couldn’t penetrate. If there was one thing Mark had failed to note throughout all these years of pining, it was that Jinyoung’s body ultimately held some sort of delicacy that he had never once beheld, identical to porcelain. 

 

It was so unlike Jinyoung on the field. Jinyoung’s swollen black-eye and his bruised cheekbone. Jinyoung and his manly laughter, yet so reticent and composed. 

 

Mark didn’t know how long he stood on wobbly knees and a swimming head absorbing every part of Jinyoung’s bare body, but it was enough time to carve himself an image that he hopefully would be able to see again, soon. The first one of many to come. 

 

Only when Jinyoung stirred ever so slightly on the bed, Mark checked his vital signs one last time before fleeing the scene, metaphorical tail tucked between his legs as though he’d just murdered someone. 

 

Sadly, the MDMA clouding his senses had sucked all of his attention on his painful need to get off, rendered him indifferent to whomever he was having sex with. That was to say Mark hadn’t exactly been able to relish Jinyoung the way he’d always wanted. 

  
  
  


He was addicted.

 

Not to the MDMA, that shit was nasty.

 

He loved Jinyoung. A harmless, experimental lick at the source of all his wet dreams and Mark found himself tangled in the irrevocable throes of carnal bliss. 

 

He came back for more, and Jinyoung was all too willing to bend to his every demands. Mark was thoroughly pleased, Jinyoung sated to the brim. 

 

He wasn’t quite sure why he kept the MDMA in the game. Perhaps because he couldn’t yet face Jinyoung without a filter that he could later blame should the situation call for drastic measures. Perhaps he thought the whole ordeal wasn’t a 100% mutual, and Jinyoung needed some sort of coaxing. Either way, it helped sustaining a flow that they couldn’t weave on their own. 

 

But then it stopped, because he could feel his health slowly degrading by the pills singlehandedly. 

 

That was when the magic began. 

 

The romance, the pink lenses, the butterflies that ruled out any kinds of drugs that existed on Earth.

 

Jinyoung finally loved him. 

  
  


-

  
  


He was 22. 

 

If someone asked Mark to compare Jinyoung to something,  _ anything _ , he could say a muscle clam, passion fruit, an egg, a box, the color black etc. The options were endless. 

 

Mark’s favorite option, however, was the crème brûlée. Jinyoung was sweet like a dessert. He would invariably be portrayed as tough, strong and oozing macho manliness,  _ the testosterone-infused football player of his college _ , wrapped in muscles and a mysterious aura completed with a dash of blood, the deal-breaker, the star fuckboy, but Mark didn’t have to know Jinyoung to see through the guise. 

 

That caramelized surface that was so easy to crack with a flick of a wrist and a small spoon, the same prospect applied to Jinyoung as well. Mark only needed to stroke the right nerve and Jinyoung would turn to a ball of softness like a switch had been flipped. On the inside, Jinyoung was like dense, sugary cream, soft on the tongue and pleasant to the taste buds, pliant, whiny, light like whipped cream. The two irreconcilable concepts of him differed like day and night. It would shock just about anyone. 

 

Crème brûlée was Mark’s favorite dessert.

  
  
  


Jinyoung had shaped himself a reputation. 

 

Mark leaned an elbow on his crossed legs, casting his gaze on the waning football match below. His boyfriend looked stunning in shorts and his football jersey, as usual. The sun was setting in the horizon, shining past tall trees and drawing looming shadows all across the field. 

 

Mark watched as Jinyoung jogged towards him, and wasn’t even surprised when he was intercepted by a brand new circle of fangirls, bent over backwards for his number, a series of praises tumbling out of their mouths in a frenzy. 

 

Mark wanted to laugh at the world for thinking his adamant, hot-headed football player of a boyfriend would  _ ever  _ submit himself to girls. Or to other delicate boys like himself.

 

Only Mark knew how Jinyoung really liked to be treated. 

 

People often misread Jinyoung, mistaking him for someone dominant because of his natural demeanor bursting with life in comparison to a timid and stiff Mark, coiling in on himself. If people didn’t directly throw themselves on Jinyoung’s strong body, they would place vain bets that Jinyoung would still be the one behind the fucking. 

 

_ Only  _ Mark knew Jinyoung to that extent. 

 

“Hey,” Jinyoung slipped beside him, and Mark suppressed the urge to pinch his nose at the onslaught of the overwhelming smell of sweat towing along Jinyoung’s body. 

 

Mark sunk into his side, making himself comfortable in the dent of Jinyoung’s waist and enjoying the drastic fall on the girls’ faces, dragging their feets back to wherever they came from as they mumbled something about unfair and cute boys always being either taken or gay. 

 

He couldn’t help the smile, and indulged a kiss with Jinyoung. 

  
  
  


Despite appearances, and as opposed to popular beliefs, Jinyoung wasn’t the tough, hot-headed football player the whole campus knew him to be. 

 

He was small, svelte and tender.

  
  
  


Just the way Mark liked it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this didn’t turn out exactly the way i wanted it but i hope it was okay  
> bambam was supposed to be a key character and this was supposed to be longer but i didn’t want to add drama
> 
> thank you for reading and hopefully enjoying ! 
> 
> (tell me what you think !)


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